


Lathbora viran

by 7ia



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7ia/pseuds/7ia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan struggles in the wake of Solas' disappearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lathbora viran

He had laid in agony for two years.

Moments passed by like, slipped through his fingers in lines. Moments that refused to leave imprints on his flesh but piled at his feet, the wind carrying each granule away.

He had wondered what exactly was keeping him in place. He could go, disappear into the night. They would never find him. Those he had called friend had left, scattered to far-flung corners of the world. Occasionally they would write, remind him that, _yes_ , they did care, they did think of him. He was left, bare-faced and unsure, in a glittering box on his golden throne amongst jeweled slippers. Trade agreements, marriage proposals, arguments over frivolous swatches of land, disputes over _who_ got _what_ because they had _helped_.

When nights were flat, the hall dark, he would sneak into his old room. Josephine had looked at him with such gut-twisting sympathy when he squeaked, stumbling over his words as he begged her not to clean out _his_ room. His grand apartments were poisoned fruit, rotting and untouchable. Servants dusted the desk, opened the windows, changed the sheets, but he refused to go back. Every inch was tainted with memories of _him_. The desk, where he had smiled at him over mountains of papers, pressed his back up against it and elicited tremulous moans from his eager mouth. The balconies, where his white arms would wrap around his bare waist and hold him close against the nipping wind. The grand bed with tall canopy and billowing fabric, where nearly every available moment was spent taking turns, finding what touch could make the right scream, where to lick and kiss to turn each other into trembling messes.

He spent fitful nights in the dark, quiet room of _his_. He thumbed over ancient texts, words his forefathers used to read and form upon their lips. They had spent hours going over verbs and nouns, learning where to stress the vowels. This room was tainted, but he could sit in the middle of the bed without falling into himself. Papers with his handwriting, detailing the notes of his findings to researchers in Orlais and Tevinter were sprawled at his feet. Scraps of paper with fresco sketches, flaking charcoal that smudged on his thumb as he traced the lines. Scraps of paper with his likeness before the blood writing was gone. A smile, tousled dark hair, a flat stomach… he did not recognize the elf in the drawing. An uncanny likeness at one time, perhaps, drawn in a style that was so uniquely _Solas._  
  
Dreams were harder, _sharper._ Entangled in an old shirt of _his_ , he would draw the sheets that still smelled of ink and herbs and magic to his chin. His subconscious would tease him with memories that refused to surface while he played puppet. Fade or no, Solas was there, touching, smiling, laughing with control, painting. He could hear the rhythm of ancient words as Solas praised his body, watch as his head dropped backwards, mouth slightly agape as he continued to sing words of old. The Fade was crueler than dreams, teasing him with things he no longer had. The Fade reminded him of the gentle, almost subconscious way Solas had reached out to him just before they fell asleep, spent. The softness of his skin, the hot brush of breath against his pointed ear, the way they fit together on that grand Orlesian bed. The Fade reminded him of the soft Elven songs that were sang in a lilted voice as he slipped into dreams. Some days he did not want to dream at all. Some days he avoided his room altogether and paced the ramparts, foolishly praying to the Creators to bring Solas back.

He had planned to leave after the Exalted Council. Solve their problems and leave. Disappear, cover his tracks, live off the land until something ended him. Brown bear, cold, exhaustion… anything. The Inquisition had taken everything from him, and Solas had stolen the rest. He cared not for _shemlen_ squabbles, over their fears of a too-powerful organization.

New life had been breathed into his lungs at the mention of _Solas_ on enemy Qunari lips. It had filled his every existence. The name had been avoided in his privy, side-stepped carefully by friends. But she told him _Solas_ lived, and was in danger. He had thrown himself into the hope that he could find his love again; convince him to escape into the wilderness with him. Solas with his magic, he with his blades, they could carve out a piece for themselves. They could learn to _fit_ again. His friends, back from their corners of Thedas, warned him against putting his faith in false hope. _It might not be him. He might not be the same person you once knew. Cole can make you_ forget _. We’ll find you someone you can love, who can heal you_. But their words rang hollow in his ears. They did not matter. They did not know.  
  
Rushing, racing, Cole’s words in his ears: _Solas doesn’t want to hurt anybody! He’s not that kind of wolf!_ Panic, bile rising in his throat, the Viddasala always out of reach.  
  
Ma fen _._ _I suspect you have questions._ Dark hair, thick and pulled back framing his bare face. Form fitting armor, ancient, bright and close to his person in place of the rough spun he used to wear. His jawbone amulet tucked safely at his belt. Pain surging up his arm, threatening to break his body…  
  
“ _Vhenan?”_

He woke with a start, sweat slicked down his limbs. His heart was racing. The room was dark, he couldn’t see. A light sprang at the corner of his vision. The jawbone amulet pinched his flushed skin, his long face appeared in the darkness.  
  
“Just a bad dream.”  
  
White limbs slipped under his arms, pressing him into his chest. Hot breath brushed against his pointed ears, his body tucked neatly against him. “Sing me a song, Solas.”  
  
“Which one do you wish to hear?”  
  
Green eyes closed to the darkness. “Anything. I just need to hear your voice.”  
  
He fell asleep to the murmur of ancient words, familiar and grounding, of love once lost but then found.


End file.
